"Are you, Cilla, as adept at solving puzzles as you are at creating them?”
The writing, in faded red ink, wound across both sides of the paper like the coiled dragon figure on the coat of arms of the locket. The paper itself showed little effects of the burial in the bog, but the ink itself had been smeared.
"It isn't in English, or French, not even German. I recognize the others from school", Eason said.
"Not Spanish," said Thurgood, "nor Italian. What, Percilla, dear, do you make of this?"
Percilla, in fairness, didn't want to look at it. Because she DID recognize it. And the puzzle began forming in her mind, just as Edgar has said.
I know what it is, Percilla thought wildly, it's what Uncle Edgar told Mommy and Papa about, here, in this room, and what he wanted to tell me, too, oh why did Uncle Edgar have to die like that, before telling me the truth...
But, the two men had divined the look in Percilla's eyes. "Percilla, dearest, whatever's wrong?" Thurgood minced. "Why that face?"
"It's because she knows," Eason said, "am I not right? Percilla, do you recognize this language? Maybe even the crest? What can you tell us?"
"If I told you," came Percilla's choked voice, "you'd never speak to me again. Either of you, yes, even you, Thurgood," she said to Thurgood's fallen face, "because you especially would think me as fallen from station."
"Oh, nonsense, Percilla, dearest," Thurgood said emphatically, "nothing could ever convince me you were anything but the sweet noblesse you are!"
"How could you think we would hold you to that, Percilla!" Eason said. "Nothing you say will cause me to think less of you, of that, you must be certain. Now do, go, tell us what you know."
Percilla was silent, turning her back to both of the men as she nervously paced the floor. After a minute of quiet, she turned slowly.
"I know the language on that paper. Mommy used it often, because it was home to her. But you won't like it.
"The language? It's Romany. The tongue of the Gypsies. And I am not high-born English - I am half-Romany!"
Eason was first to find voice. "Romany! Romany, you?!? But your mother, Chelsea Westerfield, of the Hempstead Westerfields -"
"- was taken in by the Westerfields, as a heathen orphan, by Lord Westerfield, and raised in an English manor," Percilla finished. "And her name wasn't Chelsea at birth, it was Francesca, Francesca Tzibiu. Haven't you divined now, where my features come from?"
"Um, well, you were always so, well..." Thurgood tried to interject, but trailed off at Eason's glare.
"Different? Yes, Thurgood, not the milquetoast English creamy complexion, at all," Percilla said with rising anger, "but a mixed breed of proper England and the Romany, and I know both cultures equally."
"Then, Percilla," Thurgood blurted, "you can read the writing?"
"Yes, of COURSE! The scroll!" Eason almost shouted, his excitment returning. "Thurgood, clever man, has reminded us. Percilla, please, solve this mystery for us!"
Percilla felt as a cornered cat must feel, being trapped into revealing the knowledge contained therein. But also, like the proverbial cat, her curiosity rose once more. Uncle Edgar was dead. Both her parents were dead. All those who might know the tale of her past, and the meaning of the rumors, were gone. But here, in her grasp, was a key. And what was it, that Edgar told her?
"Not everything is obvious... what is a key, but a device to open a lock, and it matches the lock itself, and not your preconcieved views. Your first lesson of many, darling niece!"
Slowly, Percilla crossed back to the table, turned the document over, and stared at it in silence, trying to recall scraps of learning from years gone by, conversations with her mother, or the occasional visitor in the night, who left before the dawn, and whom Mother always allowed to lodge in the house.
"It's hard to read," Percilla said finally, "I don't recall clearly all of the Rom language. Mommy taught me to speak it, better than read it - most Romany lore is oral tradition anyway, passed down through the generations. To set it down on paper, is the mark of something momentous that must be recorded, like a contract, or a treaty."
"But, Percilla, don't keep us in such suspense!" Thurgood said. "what does the bloody thing say??"